


hope is such a despicable thing

by kaptivated



Series: let's tell a story about running away. [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M, Saihara is a very bad person and I'm sorry, That Edgy Shit™, Trans Ouma, detailed warnings in notes, endgame spoilers, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 20:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12825783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaptivated/pseuds/kaptivated
Summary: [V3 ENDGAME SPOILERS]He doesn't think Saihara has ever loved anything in his life, except the thought of killing.But that's fine. Ouma already knew that someone like him was unlovable. It would be unfair to expect Saihara to do the impossible, right? Yeah, completely unfair.It was completely unfair how much Ouma loved him anyway.





	hope is such a despicable thing

**Author's Note:**

> this is pretty heavily influenced by [ninata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ninata/pseuds/ninata)'s pre-game saiouma stuff and also sumirufus' "[rats died.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12392706)" so please check those out if you like this. i really love those stories. i did put my own spin on it though cause i love toying with ideas about pre-game personalities.
> 
> fair warning, i haven't seriously written anything in years. also i only know how to write angst and introspection so that's what you'll get.
> 
> warnings for suicide, self-harm, implied child abuse, tiny mention of alcoholism, underage sex, pain play, some depictions of violence, a reaaaaally unhealthy relationship. at some point they have sex while ouma is on his period. also saihara smokes. (it sounds so edgy i know i'm sorry)

It must've been half an hour by now. Saihara, irritated, stands up and clicks his tongue. He was usually pretty patient, if he had to be completely honest, but this was becoming way too boring way too fast.

"Are you going to jump or not?"

The boy jumps (but not enough), shaking like a leaf as he turns around and meets Saihara's eyes. His mouth gapes a few times - as if he was trying to come up with an explanation, an excuse, anything - until he decides on a boring, predictable, "H-How long have you been there?"

Well, if Saihara wanted to tell the truth, he'd have to explain that he'd been sitting on the rooftop for a good hour or two, just about to start his 5th (or was it 6th? not like that mattered) drag, when the door had slung open and some trembling little kid had made a beeline to the safety fence. He didn't mind admitting how he spent most school afternoons up here wasting away his time, his money, his life, and watching the smoke of it drift off into nothingness. But if he started explaining himself, he might accidentally mention how it had crossed his mind to pull out his phone and record the whole thing (not to share or anything, just for himself, so he could watch it over and over and tell himself he had killed someone, even if it was only through inaction, and _ah crap_ , he was starting to get dizzy just thinking about it), and he had only refrained from doing so because he didn't want the boy to disappear while he was grabbing the phone from his bag. He definitely didn't want to miss that.

But after the boy had stood there in complete silence for so long, Saihara was just plain pissed.

"Long enough." He takes a step toward the boy, still too paralyzed to react. "Well, are you going to jump or not?"

Two steps. Three. Four.

The fifth one seems to shake the boy out of it. "I-I... Ah..." Free from his frozen state, now he's shaking so hard that Saihara is sure the wind could push him over. "Yes... I will," he manages to mumble with about as much conviction as he can muster.

_Then do it already_ , was Saihara's immediate response. But this was a rare opportunity, he shouldn't waste it. He had dreamed about this many times - dreamed of what it would feel like to have someone's life cradled in his hands - and now that he's getting drunk off the feeling, he doesn't want it to end. No, he decides to have some fun.

Six. Seven. Eight. Close enough to see now the faint red streaks where tears had certainly been. Not close enough to give in to the temptation to reach out and kill him himself. "Come here."

For a few moments, the boy pretends that what he had said was true and he really was going to turn around and step into oblivion and his body would splatter like bird shit in front of this goddamn school. But instead he gives in to the stranger's request, and climbs back over the rusted fence without a word. No, it wasn't just because he had been asked to give up. He had already given up on his plan as soon as he decided to wait and watch the cars crawl by like maggots over a corpse instead of just jumping without a second thought. Yes, the problems always started whenever he tried to think for himself.

Too late.

"What's your name?" He has a soft voice, the boy realizes. Maybe even higher than his own.

"...Kokichi Ouma."

"Ouma-kun, I have something to show you." His lips purse into thin smile. He outstretches a hand. "Would you come with me?"

Something about the glint in his faded golden eyes makes Ouma feel vaguely uneasy, but honestly, he's surprised he can feel anything at all. About an hour ago, he had felt too much and all at once (and it was written all over his face and arms), and now he isn't sure if there's anything left in him. Nothing - no resistance at all as he lays his hand over that of someone whose name he still doesn't know. He isn't sure if he cares to know.

Saihara decides for him. "I'm Shuuichi Saihara. I want to die too. So, let's be friends from now on."

* * *

Ouma stood frozen in the doorway as Saihara set down his bag and rummaged through the cardboard boxes piled haphazardly in the corner. The room, dimly lit by traces of the sunset, was small, too small. But it was nice. (It was better than no room at all.)

_Make yourself at home_ , Saihara had said. Ouma had no idea what that was supposed to mean. Should he make himself rudely comfortable and use all his things without asking? Scrounge the fridge for his first meal of the day? Lay down and cherish the warmth of a couch unoccupied by his drunken father? Set his things down beside Saihara's and _breathe_ , close his eyes, enjoy the silence, pretend he belongs here, belongs anywhere?

That doesn't make sense, though. Since that's not what "home" is.

Saihara finally turns around, a shaky grin plastered on his face. A nagging voice in Ouma's head tells him he should be more frightened about following a stranger all the way to his home. It unsettles him, the coldness in Saihara's voice, his apathy toward seeing a student nearly kill himself (just how long had he been watching exactly? observing him like some kind of lab rat?). On the other hand, Saihara had smiled at Ouma. He can almost convince himself that that smile was genuine, so he also tries to convince himself that there's nothing to be afraid of.

There's nothing to be afraid of as Saihara turns on the TV and slides in the disc in his hands. It flickers to life with the distorted sound of static, ringing in his ears. A girl, trapped in the screen, her neck twisted too far. Bright pink, a line drawn from her chest to her navel. A knife pointing to the end of it. Inside the television, someone is screaming.

There's nothing to be afraid of.

"Ouma-kun, have you heard of Danganronpa before?" There's a quivering excitement in his voice.

He shakes his head.

"Really? That's surprising. It's pretty popular, you know." There's a glimmer caught in his golden eyes. "So, what do you think?"

He thinks he wants to throw up.

"Isn't it amazing? It's so amazing I can't even describe it!" There's a red flush dusting his cheeks. "I love Danganronpa sooooo much, you know?"

He opens his mouth. "Why?"

Somehow, Saihara grins even wider at that. He nearly runs up to Ouma, taking hold of his shaking hands. (Shaking? Why was he shaking? Why was Saihara shaking?) "Isn't it beautiful? The way she died, so cruelly broadcasted for the whole world to see?" He leans in closer, breathing just as frantically as his heart is beating. "You can't forget it now. You'll never be able to forget her, for as long as you live."

His hands squeeze painfully around his knuckles, pressing bone against bone. "Hey, Ouma-kun. You want to die, don't you? But I mean... what's the point of dying in such a pathetic, meaningless way?" He lowers his grip, wraps his fingers around Ouma's wrists, clutching at his injuries. A reminder. Ouma winces, fails to hold back tears as he feels the sting of his skin, raw and red, tearing apart again. But he doesn't try to pull away. He doesn't want to. "If you're going to die anyway, isn't it better like this? If your life can only ever mean nothing, can't you at least make your death worthwhile?"

Saihara digs his nails in, blood dribbling into his hands. "I'm going to be in Danganronpa someday. I'm going to kill someone. And then, I'll be executed. An execution just for me, Shuuichi Saihara. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Harder, harder. Pressing against his body. Crushing him.

"I know you understand, because you and I are the same. Because you're filthy. Irredeemably filthy. You're enjoying this, aren't you? Me hurting you like this."

Saihara giggles. It's frightening and delightful all the same. Saihara really does have a nice voice. He can't deny that hearing such a gentle voice say such terrible things excites him. He can't deny that as Saihara's grip tightens, a warmth starts pooling in his gut. It makes him feel disgusted with himself. He's crying and bleeding and hurting so badly but all he can think about is how pretty Saihara looks when he's smiling like this.

"Hey, hey, Ouma-kun. You owe me for saving your life today. Even if you didn't want me to, you owe me. But hey, I'm a pretty nice guy, so I'll make your debt super easy and fun to pay off, okay?" He leans in closer still, lips hovering over his. Ouma can feel his heart pounding in his ears. "All you have to do is come here every day and watch Danganronpa with me. You'll love it. I know you will. A-And... ah..."

He closes the gap. It's awkward, their noses smushed together before Saihara tilts to the side. Something drips onto Ouma's chin and he realizes Saihara is drooling. Then it's over as quickly as it began.

(A first kiss. Both of theirs. How romantic.)

"You'll let me do things like that. Understand?"

Ouma's head is spinning. But he's right, isn't he? Ouma owes him. Because he saw Ouma in all his weakness, saw his filthy self and didn't run away. Because he gave him the blessing of a hand to hold. Because he was here in this small, warm bedroom that smelled like cigarettes (like the taste in Saihara's mouth) instead of lying on the cold ground (outside the school or inside his parents' apartment, it didn't matter, nothing mattered) without ever having known what it was like to be kissed. Kisses meant love, didn't they? Was love the same as this twisted feeling in his gut? Or was it the feeling in his chest that made it hard to breathe? He didn't know. He wanted to know.

"Okay."

Saihara giggles again, music to his ears. At last, he releases his grip. After shuffling through some drawers, he produces a first aid kit. Wraps up Ouma's arms and cleans his hands. Together, they sit down on the bed. Saihara watches the TV, Ouma watches its reflection in his eyes. He can still feel the warmth enveloping his hands, savors the feeling before it dissipates completely. He's still trying to memorize how Saihara's hands felt, since he's too scared to reach down and check for himself. Eventually, he drifts off, falls asleep to the sound of murder and the rhythm of Saihara breathing beside him.

When he wakes up the next morning, he can pretend he belongs here, even if only for a moment.

* * *

Saihara's lips were so soft. They tasted so nice. Saihara's hands were soft too. He liked the way they brushed his cheeks as they tucked his hair behind his ear. He liked the way they pushed him onto the bed. The sheets too - they smelled like Saihara. Like faint tobacco smoke and sunlight. He wanted to be smothered in that scent. He wanted Saihara to drown him in it the same way his touch was submerging his body in waves of warmth. He broke away - breathed in, out - and suffocated himself in it again.

Saihara's fingers ran down his neck, along his collarbones. It felt so nice. They found their way beneath his shirt, rubbing circles over his stomach. It felt so nice. Both his hands, tugging at the hem of his jeans, brushing against the edge of his thighs. It felt so nice. He closed his eyes as Saihara pulled away from his mouth and drew his tongue lightly along his ear, breath ghosting along. He shivered at that, at the beautiful sound of Saihara's soft breathing. Let out a moan as his lips found their way to his neck instead, peppering light kisses between wet strokes.

His hands - where were they again? His mind had grown so hazy. Ah, it didn't matter. Anywhere was fine, everywhere felt good. Saihara felt so good. That was all he could think about. That feeling - it engulfed him. More. And more. And more. And more. And more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and

it stopped.

"Ah. I figured as much."

_What?_

_Why?_

_Why did you stop?_

Ouma blinks. Again. Again. He hadn't realized how tightly he had squeezed his eyes shut. His euphoria over, he follows Saihara's gaze toward where his hands are hovering over his - oh.

Oh.

Panic rises up in his lungs, starts to choke him as he begins retching up apologies - _I'm sorry, I should have told you, I was going to, I promise I wouldn't lie to you, please believe me, please don't be upset, please don't hate me_ \- until there's nothing left inside him except for the taste of bile in his mouth.

Saihara watches carefully as Ouma does all of this. Somewhere in his mind he notes how ~~disgusting~~ cute Ouma is when he's begging for his life. "It's fine. It doesn't matter."

He lays a kiss over Ouma's still-sputtering lips (they were oozing with drool, like he was a pathetic little baby), then presses his hands back into Ouma's body. Ouma's breath catches in his throat as Saihara pulls everything away, exposing him to the cool air. He blinks the tears out of his eyes. Ah, when had he started crying? Saihara studies his expression as he easily slides a finger inside.

Ouma stares at him, almost in awe. "You... you don't mind? But I'm... I mean..."

Saihara seemed somewhat displeased with that, so Ouma lets his words sputter out.

"I said it's fine." He pulls out and presses his finger against Ouma's lips. "Lick it."

Ouma obeys. Of course he does. He'd do anything to get rid of that scary expression on Saihara's face. He obeys too as Saihara instructs him to strip what's left on both of them, to take him in his mouth until Saihara's scent is all over his face, dribbling into his eyes and down his chin. When he sees the delirious smile Saihara is wearing, he finishes soon after.

Did he really make Saihara smile like that? Was that his fault? That thought alone makes his body start to heat up again. He curls up into the sheets as Saihara wraps an arm around him. He breathes in. Cigarette smoke, sunlight, sex. Is this what happiness is?

"Let's do this again tomorrow."

... Yeah, it must be.

* * *

"I love you."

He smiles. Really, truly smiles. It'd been so long since he smiled that way.

"I love you so much."

That was no lie. Coming from Ouma's lips, at least. He wasn't sure if he'd lied at all in his life. Certainly, he would never lie to Saihara.

He also couldn't lie to himself and pretend that Saihara loved him back.

Well, maybe he did at first. Back when the two of them lay intertwined in sheets that smelled faintly of smoke, kissing all over as if to claim each other as their own. When Ouma would tuck his head against Saihara's chest and listen - thud, thud, thud - to the proof that this was real, that Saihara was real. When Ouma bore his full, disgusting self for him because he was scared of the feeling in his chest, hoping that Saihara would reject him like the rest of the world had, but was never able to drive him away. Was that because Saihara loved him?

No. He knew. He'd already known for quite some time. He knew it in the way Saihara would always press too hard - his fingers around his throat, his cigarettes against his skin, his will against his own. It was in the bruises he left that Ouma couldn't hide. It was in his gleaming eyes when he suggested an idea, pulled out a knife, and knew Ouma would not deny him. How could he? Who was he to tell Saihara to stop?

It felt kind of nice too. That thought made him sick, made him want to peel off his own skin and escape from this body that craved pain like it was oxygen. The first time, Saihara only left a few marks on his wrists (he had run his fingers over them so many times just to memorize what Saihara felt like, and almost cried when they finally faded away). Now he wondered if Saihara would cut right into his heart, press the cold knife against its beating warmth until it bled to a stop. He doesn't mention it, even though he knows it would make Saihara happy.

Saihara doesn't try lying to him either. He presses his lips against Ouma's, but it's numb and unfeeling, simply routine. When he pulls away, he doesn't say anything. Not "I love you too," not "You're disgusting." Saihara continues his movements (in and out, almost slow enough to be gentle) as if nothing had been said at all. Ouma considers that a mercy. He thinks if Saihara had said he loved him too, he would've thrown up, or else laugh at just how _wrong_ that was. He doesn't think Saihara has ever loved anything in his life, except the thought of killing.

But that's fine. Ouma already knew that someone like him was unlovable. It would be unfair to expect Saihara to do the impossible, right? Yeah, completely unfair.

It was completely unfair how much Ouma loved him anyway.

It had hit him when Saihara's face lit up at the sight of red, leaking out of him and staining the sheets, and he knew he should've been disgusted when Saihara went inside him anyway, grinning all the while. But all he could feel was happiness. He was so happy. So happy that Saihara would embrace him like this. So happy that Saihara was holding his hand. So happy that Saihara called him by name. So happy that Saihara would let him sleep here again so he wouldn't have to go home. So happy that Saihara had _seen_ him and reached out his hand that day, some months ago.

Saihara could do whatever he wanted to Ouma, he realized, and he would be thankful for it. Saihara was a horrible person for using him as his plaything (and he hated it he hated it he hated it), but he didn't care. He didn't care.

"I love you so much," he repeats, because there's nothing left to say.

* * *

"Congratulations," he forces out, because there's nothing else to say. "That's fantastic, Saihara-kun."

"Isn't it?" Saihara responds, but not really because he's still stuck in his own mind fantasizing about everything that comes next. At least, that's what it looks like to Ouma. He thinks he understands by now what it means when Saihara's eyes light up like that. The same way the TV screen flickers on. The same way the knife glints in the moonlight.

He tells himself the heavy feeling in his stomach comes from being happy for him. It's not because he's being left behind. It's not because he gave his heart away and got nothing in return. It's not because he's not sure how he's supposed to live without breathing the same air as Saihara.

... Who was he kidding?

"When does it start?"

"There's still a few weeks," he explains. He always seems much more eager to talk when it's about his precious game. "Actually, one of the selected participants turned down the offer, so they're opening up auditions again." He sneers. Ouma doesn't like the way it distorts his pretty face. "Isn't that so fucking stupid? Why did they even bother auditioning if they were gonna waste a chance like this?"

Ouma knows why (it's the same reason he stood on top of the school for half an hour, thinking of everything and nothing at once), but he doesn't say it, just hums halfheartedly in response. He's still trying to beat his feelings down and bury them six feet under or else he might start crying and begging and making a fool of himself because there's nothing he can say to change Saihara's mind. Then Saihara would be mad at him. Maybe he'd grab Ouma's hair and pull him headfirst to the ground, spitting on him and cursing him out because this is what he wants, this is all he's ever wanted, why aren't you happy for him - so he tries killing his unwanted feelings instead. He'd already been doing that his whole life before meeting Saihara, so it's not a big deal.

He must've forgotten how to do it properly though, because it still hurts. Something had taken hold of his heart (he'd let it happen, how careless) and now it was squeezing, squeezing, squeezing - trying to rip it out of its cage of bones, through his throat, out his mouth. He wonders if there's any way to make it stop. He thinks if he could stay with Saihara forever, he'd never feel pain again. He'd do anything to be with Saihara. He would even let Saihara cut him open and slice up his innards and kiss his still beating heart and it would feel so nice, wouldn't hurt at all. Wouldn't that be so nice? To heave his final breath beneath Saihara's touch? To soak Saihara's hands in his blood, unforgettable? To smile as his eyes grow heavy and the last thing he sees is Saihara's beautiful, golden, dead eyes looking back at _him_?

Ah. He understands now. How foolish he had been to hope even for a moment that he could live with Saihara. How selfish. They were doomed from the start, cursed to die by this cruel, disgusting world. People like them, they could never live. In truth, they had never really lived at all. Years upon years of pretending to be alive, pretending to be happy, pretending to be normal - all meaningless when everything inside is rotten. They really were a perfect match.

He laughs. It's a strange thing. He hasn't laughed in a very, very long time. He laughs at how simple everything had been all along.

_They're opening up auditions again._

For the first time in his life, Kokichi Ouma knows exactly what to do. A delirious smile creeps onto his lips. This, this is the feeling that Saihara wanted to share. This despicable thing known as hope, festering in his heart.

"I can't wait, Saihara-kun," he sings. And it's not a lie.

 


End file.
